


What the Parrot Saw

by spacegeography



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegeography/pseuds/spacegeography
Summary: They watch the dirty movie like usual, but Hawkeye can't focus on what's on the screen.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	What the Parrot Saw

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the episode "Life With Father" where Henry receives a film called Yvonne, Renee, and Lorretta in "What the Parrot Saw"

The film opened with a shot of the parrot sitting on a perch in his hanging cage and clicking his beak. 

“There he is, the star of the show,” Hawkeye said. He handed the bowl of pretzels he’d stolen from the Officer’s Club to Trapper. 

“What’d you get pretzels for?” he groused. “They’re too loud for the movies.”

“If I asked Igor to make popcorn for us, he’d wanna join in. There’s barely enough room for the three of us,” Hawkeye said. The generator shed was big enough for the generator and not much else. 

Trapper reached over Hawkeye to pass the bowl to Henry who was just sitting down after getting the tape rolling. The three of them were sitting on upturned supply crates, squished between the wall and the workings of the generator. Henry was separated from the two of them slightly by some low pipes. The generator clunked and whirred occasionally, which didn’t make for the best movie experience, anyway, so Hawkeye doubted the pretzels would be a problem.

Henry snatched the bowl from Trapper’s hands and gave them a glare that would have been menacing if they had never met him before. “Alright, be quiet. It started.”

Hawkeye held his hand up in a show of peace. “Alright, alright. We’ll let you enjoy yourself.”

“To the best of your ability,” Trapper added, and they both broke into laughter.

“You guys,” Henry sighed.

“Wait, wait, shh,” Trapper said. He elbowed Hawkeye in the ribs.

A human had finally arrived on screen. The woman with dark hair and darker lipstick came into the living room set in a French maid’s outfit that made dusting high shelves impossible to do while staying modest. She flicked a feather duster over a bookcase and then in the direction of the bird cage. The parrot bobbed on his perch.

“That must be Renee,” Henry said.

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, she’s French.”

Hawkeye’s shoulders shook with the effort not to burst into laughter. “A master of culture,” he choked out.

“Henry, Yvonne’s a French name too,” Trapper said. 

Hawkeye couldn’t stifle it any longer and collapsed into laughter, leaning into Trapper who dissolved into giggles himself.

“Aw, can it, you two.”

On screen, two more women entered. They were dressed in tight skirts and blouses with a bazaar’s worth of jewelry between them. 

“Lorretta,” the one on the left said with a British accent that rivaled Hawkeye and Trapper’s, “get Yvonne and I the tea tray.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lorretta said with an American accent.

“Fuck’s sake,” Henry muttered.

“I can’t believe it,” Hawkeye said, suddenly sitting straight. “She’s not even French. The nerve of her wearing that outfit!”

“Maybe they’ll punish her for it,” Trapper said.

Lorretta came back into the room, teetering slightly on her heels with the tray. She stumbled unconvincingly at the last second and dropped the tray. Cookies scattered and the (noticeably empty) teapot and cups landed safely on the carpet.

“Oh you naughty girl! We’ll have to punish you for that.”

Hawkeye and Henry both turned their heads to Trapper. He shrugged. 

Without any more explanation Renee had Lorretta over her lap and was giving her a spanking. Lorretta moaned lewdly, but it was clearly fake and Hawkeye grimaced.

He preferred his nudie magazines over these films. With the magazine he could apply whatever fantasy he wanted; the names, their voices, the way they moved. Everything in the films was forced and fake.

“I think she’s enjoying that too much,” Yvonne said. The parrot whistles in the background; annoyance flashed over Yvonne’s face. “Maybe a different punishment is in order.” She began stripping, as if that were a perfectly reasonable action to take. The parrot stayed in the corner of the frame, preening his feathers.

Hawkeye couldn’t stop thinking about that damned parrot. Why was he in the movie? Whose idea was it? Whose parrot was it, for that matter? Did he have a trainer? An agent? A paycheck? Did he mind watching the scene before him? He didn’t seem interested. Maybe if Loretta had kept the feather duster with her.

Yvonne gave a rather loud moan and the parrot startled and flapped his wings half-heartedly. Hawkeye’s stomach started to roll the more he thought about the bird. Most household pets probably saw some kind of hanky-panky, but not on a commercial level. It felt cruel.

“Hey, give me the pretzels,” Hawkeye said to Henry.

“Shh,” Henry snapped. In the flickering light of the screen Hawkeye could see that Henry was hard and pushing against his fly. One hand was idly scratching his jaw and the other rested on his stomach, fingertips dipping down below his waistband.

Hawkeye smirked and turned to nudge Trapper so they could both tease him about it, but Trapper was in a similar state. He watched the screen with his mouth half open and the outline of his cock obvious in his fatigues. The hand closest to Hawkeye rested at the crease of his thigh. Not touching, but nearly.

Hawkeye snapped his eyes away and felt his face flush. His own body had remained uninterested, but now his heart was pounding.

He looked back at the screen. Yvonne sat naked and spread eagle on the settee while Lorretta knelt in front of her, head buried between her legs. Renee had also stripped when Hawkeye wasn’t looking and stood next to the couching looking angrily down at Lorretta but pleasuring herself all the same. The camera moved to a close up of Yvonne’s face in ecstasy.

“Oh Jesus,” Trapper whispered.

Hawkeye couldn’t help looking over at him again. HIs chest was rising and falling in heavy breaths. His fingers twitched but didn’t stray any closer. Hawkeye wondered - had the image thrust into his mind - if Trapper ever did that for his wife. If her fingers buried themselves in his curls as his tongue flicked out and licked and sucked her, rolling his hips against the mattress, his bare back shining with sweat in the low light of their bedroom.

Hawkeye swallowed. Now his cock was interested.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. The generator shed suddenly felt even smaller and suffocating. He had thought of Trapper before. After long days and nights of surgery when his mind wasn’t as easy to filter. As Trapper told him in graphic detail his latest exploit with some nurse, and Hawkeye could only picture Trapper, how his body would move as he thrusted, how he would kiss her neck or rub a thumb over her nipple.

But never when they were sitting so close Hawkeye could feel his body heat and Trapper’s knee knocking against his own. And not when he knew Trapper was hard in his pants.

The women on screen reached their climax and Lorretta was told to start picking up the mess she’d made. The camera pulled close to the parrot who whistled and said, “Dirty girls!” and the film flickered to an end.

Henry slapped his hands against his thighs. “Wowee that sure was something.”

“That Yvonne sure was something,” Trapper said.

Hawkeye tapped his foot, anxious to get out of the shed. Usually his claustrophobia didn’t bother him inside, especially if he could see the door, but now he felt the heat coming from Henry and Trapper in waves of humidity, pressing down on him from all sides. His breathing began to fall out of cadence and he knew if he didn’t get out soon he’d start hyperventilating.

“Let’s leave  _ What Yvonne Saw _ for another time,” he said.

“Yeah this was enough excitement for one night,” Trapper said.

“Okey dokey. Night boys.”

Hawkeye shot up and made his way quickly to the door. Trapper followed behind him chuckling.

“Eager for some alone time, huh?” Trapper said to Henry, who crossed his legs.

Hawkeye ignored them and took a few long strides into the open air. Trapper caught up with him, a little slower and his gait a little stiffer. Hawkeye’s erection had faltered when his anxiety spiked, but Trapper seemed to be in the same state as before. Hawkeye swallowed, though his mouth had gone dry, and focused on keeping his eyes forward.

“Henry may be a lousy C.O., but he sure knows how to pick a movie,” Trapper said.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. They started towards the Swamp. “Why have the parrot there?”

Trapper laughed. “Is that all you thought about it?”

“Call me a prude, but I don’t usually see exotic wildlife in my pornography.”

Trapper slapped him on the back and then pulled to a stop. “Hey Hawk, mind giving me a lap around the camp?”

“Kick me out of my own tent for your lewd activities?”

“That’s right.”

“Alright,  _ one _ lap.”

Trapper grinned and headed to the Swamp. 

Hawkeye stuffed his hands in his pockets. He watched Trapper duck into their tent. In the dim light, he wasn’t sure if he could see the shadow of Trapper moving to his cot or if it were his imagination filling in the gaps. He turned away before he was tempted to find out.

He set a slow pace to the edge of the compound and settled in the dirt with his back to the camp and his knees drawn up to his chest. The camp was never quiet. There was the chirping of insects and owls. Voices arguing in the enlisted men’s tent. The footfalls of the sentry. None of it was distracting enough. Hawkeye could not shake the image of Trapper in his bunk with his head thrown back - 

Hawkeye pushed his fingertips against his closed eyes. He began listing the bones of the hand as a distraction but soon he was thinking of Trapper’s hands, stroking himself slowly, starting at the base and pulling up, brining the foreskin over the head and sliding back down, slick with spit or pre-ejaculate or some requisitioned surgical lube.

Hawkeye’s breathing was ragged. He was tempted to rip open his belt right there in the dirk and rocks. The footfalls of the sentry were getting closer. He stood up and went in the opposite direction.

The mess tent was abandoned by that time of night, and Hawkeye slipped in, sparing a brief thought for how ineffective their guard system was. He settled at a table and rested his head on his folded arms. His cock was hard again.

He gave up trying to keep the images away and thought of Trapper - close to finishing by now, fisting himself quickly, probably under the blanket, still inside his shorts to give some plausible deniability if Frank woke up or someone peeked through the mosquito netting. Maybe even curled up on his side to hide his movements. But no - this was Hawkeye’s fantasy and he could make it whatever he wanted. 

He thought of Trapper completely stripped and laying on his cot with his legs spread. One hand stroking himself the other pinching his nipple. No - not on a cot, in a real bed. Not in Tokyo either, in a bed back home, in Hawkeye’s bed. Stroking himself and bucking his hips into his fist. Panting and cursing breathlessly. His skin flushed. Hot to the touch. His chest was smooth, only a few downy hairs on his stomach. His hand replaced by Hawkeye’s. Saying fuck, that’s good, just like that, you’re so good, Hawk. Moaning softly, earnestly, not like those women in the film. Not for an audience. Just for him. 

Under the table, Hawkeye dragged his fingers gently along his cock and sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He shouldn’t be doing it. Not in the mess tent, not at all. Shouldn’t think of Trapper that way.

Trapper was married. Trapper didn’t seem to mind that, but Hawkeye did. He never fooled around with a married nurse. But he would probably break that rule for Trap. 

He couldn’t because Trapper was his best friend. Trapper kept him sane when Hawkeye’s mind seemed to be hanging on by a thread. And if Trapper knew the thoughts Hawkeye had about him - it would all be gone in an instant. He wouldn’t want to be in the same tent. Would avoid showering at the same time. And it’s not like Hawkeye was  _ looking _ . But how could he explain it? That the closeness he needed with Trapper wasn’t an animalistic urge to rut against him, it was everything? Trapper was everything Hawkeye had in this shitty place. 

Hawkeye squeezed himself through his pants and a high pitched groan tried to sneak out of his throat. He lifted his head and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He couldn’t be here. He had to do something.

He made his way quickly to the shower tent and nearly crashed into the stall wall. He fought his trousers open and pushed them and his shorts halfway down his thighs and finally took his cock properly in hand. One hand clung on to the partition, holding himself steady, and the other jerked hard, fast, so much that it hurt but he needed it. He relented after a few more strokes and spit in his hand and closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the mewls and moans that were in the back of his throat. 

He thought of Trapper again. Not alone anymore. On his knees, with his lips wrapped around Hawkeye, so hot, so slick, so perfect. His head tilted back just enough to look up at Hawkeye as he swallowed him down. Hawkeye’s hands buried in those curls, not pulling or pushing, just holding. He wanted Trapper to run the show. Give him exactly what he needed. And he would. Trapper would be so good at it, he knew he would be. And he would pull off just as Hawkeye was at the edge and say, Come on, Hawkeye, come for me, baby - 

Hawkeye grunted as he finally came and leaned heavily against the shower stall. His knees were weak. He reached over to turn the water on so he could rinse his hand off and then fixed his pants. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. He stood still for a long stretch of time, catching his breath and trying to convince himself to go back to the Swamp and be able to look Trapper in the eye as if none of this evening had happened. A sob threatened to form as he thought of how pathetic he was, jerking off to the thought of his bunkmate and best friend in the middle of the night. Now that the zing of sex had left him, he had only the desire to run his hands over Trapper’s body and hold him close to his own. It made him feel worse.

Eventually, he got his legs to cooperate and headed to the Swamp. Trapper was awake and reading by the lamp over his bed.

“That was more than one lap,” he whispered as Hawkeye pulled off his shoes and crawled fully clothed into his cot.

“Just playing it safe. There are some sights that can turn even a meatball surgeon’s stomach.”

“Hey, don’t insult little Johnny like that.”

“But I hate to see him being abused.”

Trapper chuckled and reached up to turn out the light. “Night, Hawk. Sleep tight.”

Hawkeye pulled the blanket up to his chin. He looked at the canvas of the tent and let his eyes unfocus on the sea of khaki drab. Tomorrow and the next day and the next day he would walk and work and eat with Trapper. He would put his arm around him. He would sit so close at the movies that they were practically in each other’s laps. And Hawkeye would be haunted by the desire for more than he would ever get. “Yeah. Sweet dreams.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rereading this, I don’t believe it’s very good, at least not by my personal standards. In my defense, I wrote in the weeks following some surgery so my brain is a little scrambled still.


End file.
